The Perfection that is the Progressive Future

In the morning, before school started, all the students would sing California is the perfect place for people. Our hero, Brit, used to be one of those students. He now listens to the students singing as he waits by the side of the road, waiting for a car to pass. Brit is a dancer, there are three of them in the mountain village of Che. To show how happy they are, the mountain village of Che (which has a breathtaking view of the valley) have their village dancers do tribal dancing. Brit was chosen by the school shaman at an early age to be a dancer; Brit was also identified as trans-gendered (at age five, again by the school shaman) and was put in the education and health care stream for such people. Lucky Brit! Such is the progressive future in California. And in the future, better place that it is, the gendered pronoun thing did not quite catch on. Brit is still called a He, even if he has state health care double d boobs on his slim frame, still has his penis and testicles, and underfunding and law suits means no hormones, but he does get sex trade worker training.

WARNING! Are you offended? Do not press to continue.

Lucky Brit was streamed into the sex trade workers trades union early in his public education. The village shaman received guidance from the Great Green Spirit: who could argue with that but reactionaries, rapists, and racists? There had been state funding for the gender transition, the surgeries, the hormones, the sensitivity counseling with experts from San Francisco, but the funding had been red taped away. Brit got nothing but counseling for years, and the only surgery was the double d boobs on his fifteenth birthday. Another person in his class, Starchild, the girl who lived with her parents on the horse ranch outside of town, had been selected for gender transition too. Starchild had been identified as needing to change from small, weak girl into bigger, strong girl. She had been given hormones; now she was a championship tennis player like her mom, noted for her strength and speed and agility. Brit only sees her now when she drives through town to her parents ranch, and sometimes when she came to town to bring her SUV in for service at the garage, Green Slim’s.

Brit was given a job by the village committee. Capitalism had failed in the village of Che. Actually, the village slogan is Capitalism has failed in our village. There may be grammar issues with that, but nobody much studied grammar, certainly not Comrade Teacher Doqon. Best not to bring up the subjects, especially when you think Doqon is doing LSD when he is really doing PCP. Getting back to Brit, the village decided that they would have tribal dancers do dancing at the side of the road. This would draw in tourist dollars. People driving along the pot hole-y highway tended to just drive through on their way to Nevada. If they saw some progressive dancer, showing how happy he was, bouncing his double d boobs, they just might stop in at the Vegan Inn, or get their batteries recharged at Green Slim’s garage. Of course, the STWTU (Sex Trades Workers Trades Union), lent the village the money for the Bonobo tent (a big tent you can stand up in, a double futon, and a crate of sex toys) so that Brit could help the village earn some money to help pay for social workers, irrigation water, and interest on their hefty carbon debt. There were supposed to be three dancers, working shifts, but the other two never managed to show up. One, with the same last name as village matriarch Fred (and a slightly different spelling of Fred’s first name), nobody ever saw. Certainly Brit will tell you he had never seen her, er, him, er it. The other was on maternity leave after the father of her first child broke her jaw in a dispute over a crack pipe.

Brit had a bad experience as a village dancer. It was not the fact that in the future perfect place that is California you have to work ten hours in a twenty four hour period to get social credit for a day worked (and there are 365 of these days in a social year and you are only eligible for social retirement after sixty five years worth of social credit valued days), oh no, not that. No, one day a traveler from Sanctuary City stopped in the mountain village of Che. He took Brit into the Bonobo tent, but not for Hindu meditation. No, he wanted to role play. Now Brit liked to lip synch some famous songs by famous singers. One of these famous singers had a doppelganger do some very naughty sado masochistic vids. The traveler did not want a private show of top ten hits, he wanted, well, he got what he wanted. He tied up Brit. Brit screamed, Brit screamed quite a lot, loudly. The security camera in the Bonobo tent was working ok. The security comrade at the village security station was asleep. The traveler tied up Brit and proceeded to sodomize poor Brit using a strap on, and burn cigarettes into Brits ass. After what seemed to be a long time, Brit managed to roll out of the tent and collapse on the highway, beside the big pot hole on the east bound lane. The traveler set the Bonobo tent on fire, urinated on Brit, and drove off in his Volvo. It was not a sunshine-y day for Brit.

Brit cried and cried in the arms of the village assistant to the supervisor social worker. It hurt to sit, not from the sodomy from the plus size strap on, but from the golf course of cigarette burns on his bum. But what hurt worse was the revelation that Brit was the real criminal. It is impossible to be anally raped by anything but a penis wielded by a man who identifies as male. The traveler, a male with a long history of anal rape, had reclassified in his identification as a unicorn, a species of something that is not male. Not being capable of rape, no rape charges were laid. He was given a citation for smoking in a non smoking area instead. And a stern lecture on the guilt he should feel because of the oppression of the local indigenous Winibago tribe. Brit should be thankful that some of his privilege guilt had been burned off with those square centimeters of skin.

California is the perfect place for people sang Brit sadly when he returned to work, dancing in the hot sun to attract the travelers to the village of Che on the pot hole-y highway to Nevada.

This entry was posted
on Wednesday, February 3rd, 2016 at 1:36 pm and is filed under Fenris, crime.
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